Peril, Peril on the Sea
by Grav
Summary: On his way to visit Nikola in time for the World's Fair in Chicago, James has his own near miss with the White Star Line.


**AN**: This is what happens when I do research. I write random fics I hadn't planned on, just because I find interesting tidbits along the way.

I was thisclose to this working for my Sanctuary Bingo Card, but no matter what you do with the Atlantic Ocean, it is not the Arctic. ;)

**Spoilers**: Nothing. Well, vague for "Next Tuesday", but not really importantly. Takes place in 1893.

**Rating**: PG

**Disclaimer**: Still, if you can believe it, not mine.

**Characters**: James Watson, Helen Magnus, John Druitt

**Summary**: On his way to visit Nikola in time for the World's Fair in Chicago, James has his own near miss with the White Star Line.

* * *

**Peril, Peril on the Sea**

James was starting to have his doubts about this endeavor. Were it not for the charmingly desperate appeal from Nikola and the opportunity to show up both the vampire and Edison in one go, he never would have got so far as Liverpool. Yet here he stood, on the deck of the first ship that was due to leave England after he booked passage.

The _Naronic_ wasn't even a passenger vessel, not properly anyway, but it was a member of the White Star Line, and when he'd insisted, they'd been able to get him a berth on board. He had his own cabin, at least, and took his meals with the Captain and First Officer, while the lower ranking crew dined with the cattlemen who watched over the main cargo of the ship.

James had not spent a great deal of time at sea, and the Captain proved to be quite knowledgeable in matters of navigation that James was familiar with only in theory. All in all, it was a relaxing week, particularly given the somewhat frazzled state he'd been in when he left the Sanctuary after receiving Nikola's message.

Gregory had been gone for nearly six months now, but insufficient time had passed for Helen to be over her temper about being left behind. When Nikola's telegram arrived, requesting only James to attend him in Chicago, Helen's silence on the matter had a distinctly icy edge to it. While she was very much aware that someone must remain in London to mind the shop, and that she was the best qualified of two of them to do so, she was still quite put out with him for leaving.

So it was that his departure had had occurred in a state of variable cloudiness, both emotional and climatic. He rather wished he had a method of sending Helen a telegram of his own, recounting if nothing else the terrible stench that permeated to every rivet on the whole vessel thanks to its bovine cargo, but Nikola's distraction in Chicago had diverted him from completing his new wireless telegraph, and so James was completely cut off from the world.

He was not entirely sorry about this, if he was being completely honest, but after a week with few people to talk to, he was beginning to miss Helen a great deal, and hoped she'd still speak to him when he did return to London.

On the morning of February 18th, the weather took a decidedly nasty turn. The Second Officer brought James his tea just after what would have been sunrise, along with a message from the Captain saying that the foul weather was not expected to break and that he should remain in his cabin so as to not get hopelessly wet. James could read between the lines well enough to understand that this meant simply 'please stay out of our way', so he lit the lamps and tried his best to write a letter to Helen the text of which did not pitch back and forth across the paper like a drunken sailor.

As the day raged on James took to his bunk since the chair was not bolted down and he was, to his great shame, starting to feel a bit queasy. Lunch arrived, with apologies for it was both late and cold, and James saved more than half of it in case dinner was not forthcoming. As the afternoon dragged on and on, and he committed every detail of the room to memory, even though he didn't really mean to, James fell into a restless sleep.

It was dark when he awoke to the screams of tearing metal and terrified cows. He knew instantly what had happened, the list in the ship's bearing was unmistakable, even if he didn't know what the sounds must herald. They had struck ice, and broadside at that if his sea legs did not mislead him, and he knew that somewhere below, cold sea water was pouring into the metal hull that no longer stood between them and the ocean's chilled embrace. He took a deep breath to quell that instinctive panic that welled up in his stomach, and checked his pocket watch for the time. It was shortly after one in the morning, which meant that he had now lived long enough to see the 19th of February. Whether he would see the twentieth, he did not know.

He grabbed up what few items he deemed absolutely necessary, not having packed much at all given his quick departure and the manner of his transport, and set off for the Bridge. He was all for staying out of the way, but he had no intention of being forgotten because he was sitting in his quarters when the Captain gave the call to abandon ship. Besides, there might be something he could do to salvage the situation, not to mention injured men from the collision he might aid, there being no other ship's doctor.

The Bridge was refreshingly calm when he arrived, though the undercurrent of panic could not be denied. The wheelman had a large gash on his head, to which he held his own woefully inadequate handkerchief, while the Captain took his place at the wheel. James made for him immediately and began to assess the damage.

"Doctor Watson," the Captain said as soon as he saw him. "We are preparing to launch the first boat. You must go."

"I'll be on the second one," James said, "Unless you have another person who knows how to treat a concussion."

Whatever the Captain's reply was to that, it was lost in a loud blast from the ship's horn, announcing that the first boat was away. There were half-hearted cheers of relief, but James could see enough of the storm out the window to know that a longboat was barely safer than a sinking ship in this weather, particularly since no one knew where they were. If he ever did make it to Chicago, he was going to _kill_ Nikola for abandoning the wireless telegraph just to put one over on his rival.

The door to the Bridge blasted open as one of the crewmen turned the handle and the wind took care of the rest.

"Captain," he said, breathless from exertion and fear. "The boat has foundered. All souls lost."

The Captain said nothing, but his face turned to ash at the news. He looked at James, and James was rummaging in his pocket for the paper and fountain pen he'd stowed there in his flight from his cabin before the Captain could give voice to his request.

James could barely read his own writing in the dark, but he scratched out a brief message before the Second Officer, now First, since the boat had foundered, handed him a newly emptied bottle. The ship sank ever lower as he wrote, and even though he did his best to remain level headed, all he could think as he checked his pocket watch for the time was that Helen was never going to speak to him again, and it would be his faulted they had parted poorly.

_3:10 AM Feb.19. SS Naronic at sea. To who picks this up: report when you find this to our agents if not heard of before, that our ship is sinking fast beneath the waves. It's such a storm that we can never live in the small boats. One boat has already gone with her human cargo below. God let all of us live through this. We were struck by an iceberg in a blinding snowstorm and floated two hours. Now it 3:20 AM by my watch and the great ship is dead level with the sea. Report to the agents at Broadway, New New York, M. Kersey & Company. Goodby all._

"Doctor Watson," said the Captain in a voice that might have made Helen Magnus take note, "get to the boats."

James knew when to follow orders, and pulled the wheelman to his feet, wrapping one of the man's arms around his shoulder. The Captain nodded at him, and his patient, and they stumbled together towards the door. Once they made it on to the deck, the wind was so strong that it was impossible to speak. James was forced to settle for nearly dragging the poor man across the deck, and all but shoving him into the boat.

It was nearly hopeless, James could tell. The waves reached for the boat, even as it was still tied to the ship, and the sides of which were sunk so low that the longboat all but rested on the sea even before it was cast off. Still, there was no point in remaining aboard either, so James clambered after his patient. All at once, there was a tremendous gust of wind, and one of the ropes that held the longboat in place snapped against the strain. The prow tipped downwards at an alarming angle, and James clung to the bench on which he had been sitting with all his strength. The wheelman gave a cry and fell, and James could not follow him for fear he'd lose himself overboard.

The boat hung for a second longer, stretched between the ship and the sea. James could hear shouting, but could not make out any of the words over the wind, and then the second rope gave way, and the boat plunged down with James as the only occupant.

Immediately the snow blinded him, and he could not see his way back to the ship, even if getting aboard again had been a viable option. The waves buffeted the light craft, and he gripped the bench all the more tightly against the wind. He was soaked, and now that his adrenaline was starting to wear off, he was aware that it was bitterly cold. He pulled his coat close around his body, despite what little good it did, and wedged himself in the scuppers so that he would not fall overboard if he passed out.

He sat there, adrift, for an insensible amount of time. The cold settled into his bones, and his fingers turned first red, then purple, and then deadly white. He had lost the feeling in his legs, and the cold was creeping up his body into his stomach when he heard a sound that made him think he was well and truly beyond the pale.

"I say," said the voice of his dreams, of his nightmares, "the things you get into when I am not around to keep you out of trouble."

James was aware of strong arms around him, pulling him up out of the bottom of the boat. There was no warmth in the embrace, for his rescuer's arms were as drenched by cold seawater as were his own, as though he had plunged in and out of the sea again and again whilst looking for him. In the fog of his own mind, James realized that this was probably exactly what had happened, and that he owed his rescue as much to luck and Providence, as he did to the devil whose arms pulled him from the sea.

There was a flash, and the smell of brimstone, and James found himself sitting in front of the fire in his own sitting room in London, dripping the Atlantic all over Helen's fine rugs. He wondered how John intended to let her know that he had arrived without getting shot for his troubles, but then the heat began to seep into his flesh once more, and James began to scream.

* * *

James woke up in his own bed with no idea what day or time it was. To be honest, he could not remember what_year_ it was. It was as though his whole venture had been a dream, some nightmare like the night before an examination at school, and this was to be the day of his departure. But he could see his coat hanging up by the fire, a place he never left it, and knew that he had not imagined one single detail of what had transpired.

"James, thank goodness!" said Helen from just outside his line of sight. Had he been more concerned with his surroundings, he might have chastised her, for she was on the bed with him. Her proximity brought to mind other memories, of her fingers pulling at his soaked clothes, of towels and sheets, and her clothed body wrapped around his naked one in a desperate attempt to return his temperature to norm.

"Helen," he croaked, mouth desperately dry. She cradled his head and helped him take a small drink of water, even though his stomach very nearly rebelled at the thought of water being anywhere near him. "John," he said when his throat was clear again.

"He's gone," she said, her voice nearly as cold as the Atlantic. "He was gone when I found you."

"How," James coughed, and shook his head to clear the fog. Vertigo struck him and he very nearly vomited all over the bed. He lay back, defeated for the moment, and Helen trailed her fingers through his hair.

"I imagine he read it in the paper," Helen said. "That's how I found out. The SS _Coventry_ found two boats from the _Naronic_ four days ago. No survivors."

"People know I was aboard," James said, as though that was the most pressing detail. "How will we explain my survival?"

"People only knew you were seeking passage. We'll tell them you've postponed due to illness. In any case, I had the passenger log changed," Helen said. "To John Watson."

James laughed weakly. "Sherlock will be devastated."

"Indeed," Helen said. "I'm sure Mr. Doyle has already begun to pen the tragic story."

"Did you send a wire to Nikola?" James asked.

"I did," Helen said. She had not removed her hand from his head, and he had to admit that after the harsh words that had surrounded his departure, he was almost as relieved by her forgiveness as he was at his own survival. "He says to tell you that he'll manage without you and be all the better for it. And that you're not allowed to die until he's shown you how his latest contraption works."

"I'm touched," James replied. He sobered. "John's alive."

"I did not really doubt it," Helen said. "He had all but disappeared by the time I fired, and there have been more murders since."

"I'm sorry," James said.

Helen laid her head against his shoulder and James realized that he was still quite naked, despite the layers of blankets that separated them. "At the moment, I'll admit I'm glad. I'm not quite ready for you to die either."

James shivered as he remembered how close he had come. The blankets were heavy on top of him, and the fire burned brightly, but even with the added heat of Helen's body through the blankets he felt he was right on the edge of the sea again, the violent wind in his face and only the luck of a madman between him and eternity.

"If you're ever in a shipwreck, Helen, make sure the Captain knows to hit the iceberg dead on," he said, falling back on bravado.

"I'll do my best." She knew him far too well to be taken in.

Helen pulled another layer of blankets over top of both of them, propriety be damned, and with the additional heat, James relaxed, safe in his own bed and with his dearest friend close by. She must have been nearly as exhausted as he was, for as soon as he stopped shivering, her breath quieted, and he realized that she had fallen asleep. James worked one arm out of the blankets that cocooned him, and wrapped it around her. He let the fire's flickering glow mesmerize him, until he was finally lulled back into the healing sleep of warmth and comfort, at last at home.

* * *

**fin**

**Notes**: Yes, there really was an SS _Naronic_, and yes it really sank. And we assume it hit an iceberg, but it's never been recovered so we don't know. There was a John Watson on the manifest, and the note was put in a bottle and cast overboard to be recovered in New York in March (though the authenticity is questionable). The only fact I took liberty with was the arrival of the _Coventry_, which didn't actually find the lifeboats until March 4th, but at that point James would have been long frozen to death, so I moved up the time table to allow the news to make it to the papers in enough time for John to find him. Moral of the story: never travel on the White Star Line.

Gravity_Not_Included, February 6, 2011**  
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